The Strife of Albion
by Momerath
Summary: King Arthur is facing the fight of his life for his kingdom, but it isn't Mordred's Saxon army which is devastating him, but the perceived betrayal of so many people he's loved best: Merlin, Gwen, Lancelot and Morgana.
1. Chapter 1

**The Strife of Albion**

**A/N: ** The last of my stories (the others are, in order: Broceliande, Joyous Gard and the Passing of Uther). It stands alone, though. I hope you have enjoyed them – and even if you haven't, thank you for not flaming me.

Nothing belongs to me and I make no profit – characters belong to the BBC and lots of long-dead British and French authors. I like to think of it as an Arthurian literature mash-up, to alleviate my guilt for completely bending chronology and characters to my own use. But _Merlin _does it, so whatever. Plus I've studied it so long that part of the fun is trashing it... (also, for the purposes of this story, Llamrei is a stallion, not a mare. Just because. Why I feel the need to highlight that deviation from literary canon and none of the others I have no idea, but for some reason I feel it's important).

**Chapter One**

The mist was low over Lyonesse, it was as though the whole landscape was underwater. King Arthur was on a small ridge, very small, but still the highest spot in the country for miles. The locals called Mount Badon, which suggested they had never seen anything approaching an actual mountain in their lives. Someone, probably Gaius, had told him once that Lyonesse had been raised from the waves centuries before, and this evening he could well imagine it. The only difficulty was trusting it wouldn't return to the waves by the morning. Far off, he could hear faint sounds of King Meloydas's army – whinnying of horses, clashing of last-minute repairs to armour and swords, obscure unintelligible shouts, distorted and muffled by the thick mist. Even the sounds of his own army, just behind him, were blunted by it. He could barely see his horse's ears.

"Will it lift by tomorrow?" he asked.

Sir Tristan, the only Lyonesse native present at that moment, shook his head. "It can last for days," he observed, glumly. "And usually it does."

"We fight tomorrow, still," said Arthur. "Mist or no mist."

Tristan exchanged glances with Sir Leon and Sir Kay, but all three men were silent. Whatever doubts they had were silenced by Arthur's face. King Arthur inspired fierce loyalty and trust, not because he never showed fear – how could you trust someone fearless? – but because he _did_ show fear, he showed he had considered all options, settled on one and was now scared but determined he was on the right course. They trusted his judgement. They trusted he understood what he asked of them.

They all stared into the swirling white murk, as though into an abyss. They were all straining for the sounds of the enemy's army – enemies which until months previously had been friends, brothers in arms, Knights of the Round Table. Sir Tristan's own father, the king of Lyonesse, led the charge to bring chaos to Albion. There was a rumour Lancelot was there. And Sir Bors definitely was, and so was Sir Lavayne. Other familiar Camelot faces were there too – the Lady Morgana was there, people said the Queen was, but then a lot of rumours were spreading. That one couldn't be true, could it? She had been a close friend of the Lady Morgana, it was true. If it wasn't for the rigid armour, their shoulders would be slumped. It wasn't the hundreds of Saxon warriors which dispirited them. It was the few familiar faces.

King Arthur roused himself from his reverie, and turned his horse. "Get some sleep," he said. "It's been a long, tiring road since the battle at Glein. We've faced them eleven times, gentlemen. This is the endgame. Get some sleep." They watched him go, knowing that no one would be sleeping.

He rode back into camp, the chilly mist snaking in between the links in his armour and gaps in clothing and making him shiver. He thanked Morris for taking the horse, removed his helmet and walked proudly into his tent, head high and confident swagger clear for all his men to see. As soon as the flap closed, he slumped onto the uncomfortable camp-bed. He had never felt so alone in his life. That, he reflected, was because he had actually never _been_ so alone in his life. He could hear the nervous energy of the camp around him, men scared but following him anyway, trusting their fate to his hands, individuals whose belief collected together meant he held all of Albion in his hands, and it would shatter when he dropped it, and Arthur was so sure he would drop it tomorrow, because how long could one man hold it? Tears sprang into his eyes, of exhaustion (_how _long had they been on campaign?), of premature mourning for his failure, because after his failure became apparent, he wouldn't be around to cry over the shattered land. These men's faith would be disproved, this land would shatter, over his dead body, because he had nothing more to offer than that, but what good was a dead body to anyone?

Rolling over, he wondered how many of his knights would survive. Enough to maintain order under the Saxons? Would Mordred sit in the great hall at Camelot? His head swam at the horror he wouldn't be alive to witness. His father wouldn't believe the scale of destruction his son had wrought on the kingdom, and all, Arthur thought, all was done with the best of intentions.

He needed to follow his own advice, and sleep. But all he could see was the people who had gone: his father, and Gawain, Galahad, Lionel, so many other knights, all killed in the last eleven battles; and Merlin, Gwen, Lancelot, not dead but completely lost to him, and perhaps never even belonging to him in the first place – that way madness lay, but he couldn't stop thinking about it now. He didn't believe they were over there with Mordred, no matter what the rumours said. He actually _couldn't_ believe they were there. He had put off thinking about them for months, but now there was nothing to do but try and sleep and stop the ghosts rising. But when ghosts are intent on rising, it takes more than sheer will to stop them. The camp went about its business, ignorant of their king lying in more acute torture than any Saxon could conceive of.

******

Meanwhile, Sir Leon, wandering back to his tent with a bowl of hot food (the exact nature of which seemed lost to human knowledge), became suddenly very aware of a white horse staring at him. It followed him with his eyes. He walked around in a peculiar spiral to test the theory, and still the horse watched him. It was a real beauty. No owner seemed apparent, and having such a valuable creature wandering through camp the night before a battle seemed somewhat ridiculous. After making sure no one was paying him any heed, he approached the creature.

"Who're you, then?" he asked, rubbing the horse's neck, who still regarded him with a thoughtful air.

"Llamrei," said the horse, causing Leon to leap backwards as though burned with a yelp, and spill the hot stew on his hand, which actually did scald him, making him scream a second time, even more girlishly than before. The lack of general attention he had been enjoying before was most definitely absent now; everyone within earshot was staring at him, most of them looking concerned. He sucked his burned hand, cheeks flaming, and waved his other hand as nonchalantly as possible. People continued about their business, but slightly quieter than before, with more suspicious sideways looks at Sir Leon.

The man in question looked closely at the white horse, who looked back equally inquisitively. They inspected each other for a moment, neither saying anything.

"Did you say something?" said Leon, in as low and indifferent a voice as he could manage.

"I said my name was Llamrei," said the horse, in equally as low and indifferent a voice. "_Leon_," he added, pointedly, nuzzling Leon's arm in quest of the food.

"Careful, it's hot," said Leon, batting the investigative nose away, absently. He was wondering if he was going mad. The horse was definitely talking. It wasn't even that, after the initial surprise, which was making him doubt his sanity. Magic was magic, after all, and although magic was of course dangerous and so on, Leon took it on a case by case basis these days. No, it was the fact the voice was _familiar_. "Have we met before?" he asked.

Llamrei gave Leon a thoroughly disgusted look. "I think you'd remember," he said. "Will you come with me, please?" He tossed his beautiful, creamy mane and made to turn around. Leon didn't move. Llamrei said impatiently, "look, I'm not being funny here, but you have to look like _you're _leading _me_, not the other way around. Do you want to make a spectacle of yourself..._again_?"

"Where are we going?"

"Just out of camp," said Llamrei. "You won't be away long. And...Sir Leon. I mean no harm to Arthur."

Leon put down the ill-fated stew, and took Llamrei's forelock. Something about the way he said Arthur's name made the bells ring even louder in Leon's brain, but as they walked through the cold fog, his fingers pressing against Llamrei's warm hair, he didn't feel equal to pinning down exact thoughts anymore. For some reason, Leon completely believed the horse. He believed in instinct, he trusted to instinct, and his instinct told him that, especially in the context of the slaughter everyone knew would happen tomorrow, following the horse was not completely stupid.

Llamrei lead him a little along the ridge to a small grove of oak trees. Leon reached for his sword, and distinctly heard Llamrei mutter "Oh, _please_." Llamrei pulled away from Leon's loose grasp and trotted ahead, swallowed by the mist and trees, despite being only a few feet ahead. Leon followed, disorientated in the mist and looming trees. When he eventually found the clearing, sword in front of him, he found Llamrei standing, grazing, and next to him –

"Oh, I might have _guessed_." Leon was disgusted with himself. Of course it was that voice. Who else? He put the sword down in irritation, before remembering himself and raising it again.

Merlin patted Llamrei. "Thank you, friend." Llamrei gave Leon a supercilious look and moved away. "Hello, Leon," Merlin said, quieter. "It's good to see you, and I really mean that. I am sorry if Llamrei was a little rude. He is kind enough to deliver messages for me sometimes by borrowing my voice. But he can be a little...acerbic. Listen, Leon, do you mind putting that sword down? You're making me nervous."

"_I'm _making _you _nervous?! You single-handedly brought down Camelot and..." And Arthur. He wouldn't betray his king to say it out loud, but they both knew what he meant.

"It wasn't single-handed," said Merlin, sadly. He had changed significantly since Leon had last seen him, two years previously. He wasn't a scrawny servant wielding unimaginable power. He looked like a sorcerer. He even had a cloak. He held himself taller, and no longer looked scatty and ill-fitting in his own body. He looked like someone who wielded such power, and as such made Leon very nervous. "It was never my intention, Leon – "

"_Sir _Leon." Leon wasn't arrogant. But that 'Sir' meant more than it ever had before. It meant he was honoured by, loyal to and a believer in Arthur. He was a knight of Camelot, and that meant more than it ever had before, certainly in conversation with arguably the greatest traitor. Although there were so many traitors. If Merlin was the greatest, where did that leave the Lady Morgana and the Queen and Lancelot? The thought of the betrayals stung him, because they stung Arthur.

"_Sir _Leon," conceded Merlin, eyes downcast. "Listen, we need to have a civilised talk, and I can't do that with a sword in your hand."

"You could kill me where I stand."

"Yes."

"I won't die without a sword in my hand."

"You knights and your honour. You're all as a bad as Arthur. As though it matters! Stop being ridiculous. I'm not going to kill you where you stand. You could kill _me _with that sword, but just because you can doesn't mean you will, and just because I can doesn't mean I will. Put the sword _down_, Sir Leon, this is important!"

The urgency in his tone convinced Leon, and he sheathed the sword. "Why are you here?" he asked, wearily. "We fight tomorrow. We likely will die. Your friends will win, Merlin. If you could see King Arthur, you'd see that they have already, really. I don't betray him to say that. A great gift of his is his compassion, and he is grieving for his kingdom which will be lost to chaos tomorrow. He doesn't care he will die. He cares he can't save Albion." If Leon were less loyal, he would cry, but he wouldn't show weakness to this false friend. "You've won."

To his astonishment, Merlin slumped on a log, looking utterly defeated. Merlin was always emotional and open, but Leon had never seen him in a despair so acute. "I haven't won anything, I've lost everything. You can't imagine the loneliness without him, Leon. Having to watch the struggle for Camelot from so far away. I'm so grateful to you, and Tristan and Kay and all the others who are loyal. It's been dreadful, but he's got this far and...I've been on the Isle of the Blessed. I've learned so much about my craft, more than ever. I can help you. I can help him. But he has to let me."

"You're insane if you think you're getting to him."

Merlin said gently, "I know he is in pain. But I think he'll listen to me. Eventually. We have a bond – "

"No, you don't understand. You don't understand!" Leon never shouted. Ever. But he was now. He was tired and scared and confused and blind furious. "You're insane if you think I'm _letting _you get to him! You think it's been hard for _you_?! Tristan is fighting his own _father _here! One of Kay's brothers died at Caerleon and another one at Guinnion! My mother and sister are completely unprotected in Camelot, and Astolat is totally overrun – I mean, who _knows _if Sir Urre's sister-in-law is dead or worse! My brother is somewhere in Northumbria, which as far as I can make out is on fire, and Mercia has totally collapsed! Bayard was killed in his own throne room! And Arthur has watched all this happen, Merlin, by himself. He's lost his father in front of his eyes, he's lost the woman he loved to a man he respected and trusted with his life and he lost _you_, his best friend in the world, who it turned out was a sworn enemy of everything he stood for, and always had been! Now he's going to war against the woman who he grew up with and loved like a sister, and probably his wife and her lover too. Every _single person _he opened himself to love has betrayed him, Merlin, every _single one_. He's faced more trials than any other king, he has done more for everyone all over Albion by courageously fighting invasions, and he's done it completely alone, completely abandoned by the only people he ever let himself need. I can't replace those people, because his heart is shut, but I _can_ protect him and so help me, Merlin, I will. I will, do you hear? He is going to die tomorrow, I won't have you raising the ghosts of betrayals in his head. He isn't perfect, but he's my king and my sworn brother, and I will die before I let you near him." The sword was out again, and brave warrior though he was, there was a slight tremble, his eyes fierce but brighter than completely dry eyes would be in the gloom. It was probably the most he had ever said in one go.

Merlin didn't talk for a long time, but he seemed to be swallowing hard. He passed a hand across his eyes, but couldn't meet Leon's accusatory stare. His voice was unsteady. "I didn't betray –"

"You _knew_, Merlin. You _knew _all along what they were doing. You helped them, from the start to the end. You stood by where Sir Agravayne died trying to stop Lancelot's escape, you stood by and _let it happen_. He loved her so much, Merlin. He loved you and the Queen and Lancelot so much, how could you? I mean..." his voice caught, as he shook his head in genuine disbelief, "how could you do that to him?"

"I don't..." He stood up. "Night's fallen, Leon. Time's running out. You're wrong. Arthur doesn't have to die tomorrow. It isn't the time to cast Excalibur away. I can help him. It isn't his time. But I must see him."

"I don't trust you. How do I know Morgana didn't send you? You're friends, aren't you? How much we didn't know about you two."

"I haven't seen her. But I do know Gwen and Lancelot aren't over there. I do know that your brother is safe, Sir Leon. In fact, I know him. Don't look so scared, I'm not threatening you. He's a good man, and an excellent sorcerer. He's brought many of the Old Religion to realise that Mordred is dangerous to all of us. He isn't in Northumbria anymore, but I can't tell you where he is. I know a lot, some of it very helpful. But I must see Arthur. I must save him, Leon. Do you understand? I can't let him die. I can't let you make me."

Leon considered his level, intense gaze. "It isn't his time?"

"It isn't. I couldn't lie about that. You know I couldn't lie about that."

Hope that had been absent since the exhausted army regrouped after the last battle fluttered in Leon's heart. Perhaps doom wasn't inevitable. Crazy as trusting the sorcerer might have seemed merely days ago, what now were the alternatives? "Oh, all right," he snapped. There wasn't any other option. It was trust Merlin and possibly bring about the destruction of Arthur, or fight tomorrow and almost certainly bring about the destruction of Arthur. There was something in Merlin's stare which told him that, whether it was true or not, Merlin really did believe he could save Arthur. "Yes. All right."

Merlin smiled, relieved, but Leon was slightly flustered that he didn't seem surprised at his victory in reason. "Come, Llamrei!" he called, and the horse trotted out of the trees. Merlin turned to Leon, and said in a low voice, "Llamrei is a gift for Arthur, to ride tomorrow into battle. Best not to tell him about the talking, if you don't mind. You know what Arthur's like about stuff like that."

Leon followed the warlock and the horse, thinking he could understand Arthur's point of view.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Strife of Albion**

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Merlin walked calmly beside Llamrei, slightly behind Leon, as they walked as inconspicuously as possible through the camp. No one was bothered by the man walking with one of King Arthur's most trusted servants. His time on the Isle of the Blessed had taught him how to behave like a powerful sorcerer – walking tall, talking low and firm, investing each movement with authority and confidence. But in truth his legs were weak and blood pounded in his ears, his hands were sweaty and his skin tingled. He was completely terrified. Not physically – he could defend himself should the situation turn nasty, and hold off attacks for at least as long as it took to flee –but because much as he was desperate to see Arthur, he was dreading it to the point of feeling sick. With every step taking him nearer the king's tent, he wished he was still persuading Leon back at the clearing.

The last time he had seen Arthur was that terrible night when Gwen and Lancelot's secret had come out – still so confused in his mind, from the moment he had returned from a ride to find the shout had gone up that Mordred had arrived in the hall of Camelot, unarmed and unaccompanied, requesting an audience with Arthur, he had known the game was up. There is always a silence before a great crash, and as he had realised that Arthur, slave to his system of honour, hadn't been able to refuse the audience, he had known that a great crash was coming to Camelot, even as he ran like mad to the Queen's chambers, where he knew he would find Lancelot, with as much certainty as he had known when Blaise had told him by the lake to look to the Queen– Mordred would not be there, if they were not together, he knew that, he _knew _it.

Mordred had told Arthur everything – of Gwen and Lancelot's infidelity, of Merlin's visits to the druid camp where Morgana and Morgause were based. The mad fight in the bedroom with Lancelot fighting his way clear of the knights Arthur had despatched from the hall, the look of nausea on Arthur's face when Kay told him that the knights had caught Merlin warning the lovers, Gwen begging at Arthur's feet not to be exiled, but to be allowed to stay in Camelot with him and screaming as though being murdered as she was dragged from his presence, all of it was a swirl of confusion in Merlin's memory. Arthur shouting at him "did you secretly go to the camps?" in a voice which begged to be lied to and Merlin saying, yes, and trying to explain why, but even to his ears his excuses sounded absurd. Mordred watching it all with his pale eyes passionlessly, before taking his leave.

Arthur had aged anyway since his father's death, but he looked positively ill that day. He was grey, gaunt and looked sick to death. He leaned on the throne for support, as he ordered Lancelot, fled from Camelot in a flurry of swordplay, to be stripped of his knighthood and exiled, he ordered Gwen's exile, allowing her to take jewels with her, and finally ordering the exile of Merlin, who had lost the ability to speak by that point and, indeed, see. He could barely feel the grip of Leon dragging him from the hall. "You should all be executed for treason," Arthur's last words had been, the revulsion in his voice indicating his fighting of vomiting from shock and misery, "you should all be executed for treason, but you were all...dear to me. That went one way, I do see that now, but it was real...it was real to me, if only to me, and for that reason I cannot...I will not betray that innocent faith and love the way you all did."

By the time Merlin had been escorted to the borders of Camelot, where his ropes were cut, and Sir Galahad reminded him he was to cross into Camelot again on pain of instant death, he virtually fell off his horse, and lay, motionless, in total shock, and still hearing the words in his head, haunting, and enough to drive him mad.

"Visitor for King Arthur," said Leon, in his most efficient voice, bringing Merlin back to the cold, misty night in Lyonesse. The guards at the tent squinted slightly at the hooded figure, but stood aside, trusting to Leon. "You can go and get some food," added Leon, as an afterthought. "I can watch him." The guards murmured surprised thanks. Merlin smiled to himself. Camelot guards, always to be trusted to take things at face value, which, considering the years of paranoid rule from Uther, was quite extraordinary.

The tent was lit by several lamps, casting a warm glow in the tent in stark contrast to the cold fog outside, and Arthur lay on a bed swamped with furs and blankets, his head visible, eyes only partially shut. He seemed only lightly asleep. He didn't look a great deal better than that day in the great hall, he was too grey and thin, his face was tense and his body tight. There were huge bags under his eyes.

"Sire?" said Leon. Arthur's eyes opened immediately, he didn't seem to have really been asleep, he hadn't really slept in weeks, months, even.

"Yes? Report?" he murmured, turning.

"Arthur," said Merlin. "You look really dreadful."

Furs and blankets tumbled to the floor as Arthur sat bolt upright, struggling wildly for Excalibur, yelling "_GUARDS!"_

"The guards are getting some food, Sire," said Leon, as calmly as to a child having a nightmare.

"No. No. NO." To both Leon and Merlin's alarm, Arthur seemed to be using Excalibur to free himself from his bedsheets. "Not you, too. Oh please, not you too." He looked quite wild-eyed, vaguely indicating Leon with Excalibur.

"No, Sire. I –"

"Sir Leon," said Merlin, interrupting, now that Arthur seemed to be approaching a standing position. "Sir Leon, would you mind standing outside to check when the guards are back?"

Leon hesitated. Arthur was still gesticulating and ranting about traitors. "I –"

"Leon," Merlin took his arm, and gently escorted him to the flap. "Leon, don't worry, I'll explain everything to him. I love him like a brother. You know I do. We won't hurt each other, and I promise he won't hurt you either."

Since Leon had surrendered every other point that evening, he saw no reason to dispute this one, and left.

"Have you enchanted him?" roared Arthur. "Is _everyone _to betray me?"

"Arthur, do be quiet and sit down. If you shout any louder, guards _will _come and then I'll have to start doing sleeping spells, and no one wants that. Although," he added, "you look like you could do with one. Have you been taking your valerian potion?"

"I will _not _sit down and be quiet!" He stood there, in his loose sleeping clothes, Excalibur waving incongruously as though batting sylphs of the air in an uneven fight. His hair was tousled, and he had his intransigent face on. "Leon too!"

"Leon's loyalty is extraordinary to you, Arthur. He would literally do anything for you, including incurring your implacable wrath. Do sit down, Arthur. Have you eaten?"

Arthur did, presently, sit down, Excalibur firmly in hand. He stared at Merlin in wonder, eyes wide, looking almost young again. "_What _are you doing here? I was thinking about you..." he looked resigned, suddenly. "Oh, you're here to kill me. You're not going to let me die on the battlefield."

Merlin surprised himself by being genuinely offended. He sat next to Arthur. "That's unworthy of you, Arthur, and you know it's not true. Although I will say you and Leon have both very rigid criteria for the circumstances of your deaths. Of course I'm not here to kill you, you clotpole."

Arthur blinked, looking at his lap. He put Excalibur next to him. "You shouldn't have come here, Merlin," he said, clearly, uncomfortably. "You're under a death sentence, you know that."

"Yes," agreed Merlin. "But Lyonesse isn't _really _your territory, is it?"

"Nor ever likely to be," groaned Arthur. "Lyonesse is a snakepit of traitors and sorcerers and Saxons and who knows what else. You wouldn't believe the good things we've done elsewhere, Merlin, you really wouldn't. But there's always one. Well, two. King Mark of Cornwall isn't onside, either. Mercia, Astolat, Emione, Lothian, Rheged, the Isle of Gramarye, Northumbria, a hundred other smaller kingdoms – they're all looking to me to solve their problems, and I've got King Mark and King Meloydas bringing madness to their own realms and everyone else's too! I have their nobles and people daily asking me to stop the invading Saxons – _how?" _he shrugged and leaned back. "What would my father do?" he asked the air. "I was wondering that when you came in."

"Your father," said Merlin, "wouldn't be in this position. Albion would have been overrun years ago. You think he would inspire the trust and faith of the other kings and peoples that you have? You think they would be queuing up to be fighting with Uther...well, they'd queue to fight _with _him," Merlin conceded with a grin, "but not _beside_ him." Arthur snorted with subdued laughter, but quickly caught himself. He glanced sideways at Merlin, to see if he had noticed the moment of weakness. Merlin deliberately didn't see. He nudged Arthur sideways in the ribs. "And I _would _believe it. Did you think I'd ascended clean out of the world when you sent me away?"

The familiar sulkiness set in around Arthur's lips as he said, while playing with his cuffs, "I had literally no idea what you would do. And I don't much care. The only thing I care about is what you did right under my nose."

"I know. And I _did_ know about them, Arthur, for some time. But I was angry. Very angry, when I found out. They were victims of Mordred, Arthur, as much as your father, as much as all the dead knights. They're only human. Mordred found their weakness – Lancelot's attraction to Gwen, Gwen's attraction to Lancelot and your relationship's insecurities –"

"Merlin, I swear, I don't want to hear it. I'm dying tomorrow. Haven't you heard? Do you think I care with all this infantile gossip now?"

"Yeah, I do. It isn't infantile. They stopped. They knew it was wrong. Lancelot tried to leave to go and clear up with marches of Cornwall with Geraint – do you remember? You wouldn't let him, because Gareth was missing."

"Hang on. This is _my _fault?"

"Certainly not. These are the facts. Then Morgana let Gareth go, so Lancelot went to Gwen to say goodbye. It was all over by then. I swear to you. But of course Gareth had been found because Mordred had told Morgana to let him go, because Mordred knew you would then let Lancelot leave for Cornwall, and he knew Lancelot would want to say goodbye to Gwen – "

"You've lost me completely."

"Mordred set them up. He knew when he came to Camelot to see you that they would be together, because Gareth's freedom meant Lancelot could leave. He has excellent spies. Of _course_ I warned them, when I heard he had arrived. I could imagine the terrible reaction if you found out. Good and honest and decent and honourable men have faults too. You have one or two yourself, you know. I wasn't protecting their faithlessness, Arthur, I was protecting you and your faith in them. I couldn't," he too looked to his hands in desperation, "I couldn't bear the idea of you getting hurt."

Arthur snorted again, but there was no mirth there this time. He was on his feet, angry. "And your visits to Morgana and Morgause's camps, they were to protect me too?"

"Yes!" Merlin got up to, facing him, matching him face-to-face. "Yes! I was starting the job I eventually finished. I didn't know they knew I was there. I always went when they weren't around. Fre – the Lady of the Lake – you _know _she's loyal to you – she gave me some druid contacts, we were working against them on the inside. It was stupid, I should've known he'd have worked it out. But I was inexperienced."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, curious in spite of himself. "But now you're experienced? What job?"

"Mordred and Morgana are arrogant, Arthur. And a bit mad, if I'm honest. They think they have the Old Religion on their side. They don't. The Old Religion is about balance and order, and they bring panic and disruption and disorder wherever they go. You are the unifying force, you bring peace and prosperity and safety to everyone, from kings to peasants in the fields. Your father did much to destroy trust, but they trust you. Well, they trust me, and it's the same thing," he saw Arthur look at him, for the first time keeping eye contact. "We're two sides of the same coin. People have said that to me once or twice, and it's true. You can battle the Saxons and King Meloynas, Arthur, you are militarily unsurpassable. You will defeat them. But you can't fight Mordred and Morgana. You can't defeat them."

"You can?"

"I'll be honest. I don't think we can destroy them. But we can fight them, we can knock them back, we can stop them for now. You can create a great kingdom from Albion. But you can't knock them back alone. I've been as busy as you have been, Arthur. The druids are waiting, in an oak grove just outside of camp. If you let us, we can stand shoulder to shoulder with you. You don't have to die tomorrow, it isn't your time. We even have access to the dragon, although I really advise not opening that can of worms unless we really have to. The time to cast away Excalibur is still far off, Arthur. We haven't done our stuff yet. We haven't even really begun."

"I can't...fight with druids..." Arthur was vague, he pulled his eyes away, thinking, and Merlin knew he was getting through.

"You've used their magic before. You trusted the Lady of the Lake when you came to find me in Broceliande. You took Excalibur from her and you took the scabbard to protect yourself. _She _was a druid, once. She told you that the time to cast away Excalibur was far off, and this isn't it, Arthur. This isn't it. We have so much to do."

Arthur bit his lip and looked like a guilty schoolboy, shedding years and suddenly becoming the maddeningly charming boy Merlin first knew. "I lost the scabbard," he admitted, quietly. "Morgause took it from me, just before we killed her."

"Yes, I know," said Merlin, with all the gentleness he had been saving over the years when he had been desperate to be able to comfort his friend. "Don't worry. We'll find it again."

"Really?" Arthur lifted his eyes, still doubtful. "But...I don't think I can make an actual alliance...with druids..."

"Why? Because your father said so? Arthur, you shielded me for months when you knew I had magic. You let me help you at times when you couldn't help yourself. We were a good team. You didn't care about your father's law then."

"I did care," whispered Arthur, and for the first time Merlin saw tears in his eyes.

He reached and took the king's hand in his own. "I know," he said, quietly, regaining eye contact. "But the law was wrong. You changed it. You were right to change it. When you rode in from that skirmish with the Saxons, Arthur...do you remember? Gwen and I were watching in the courtyard, and you rode back wearing Uther's armour because he had been killed and you had taken his place. We didn't know it was you, and we couldn't see you, and Gwen was hysterical, and I felt so sick, and then Leon shouted 'the king is dead! Long live the king!' and you took off the king's helmet, and you looked so scared, Arthur, and so completely excited, holding Excalibur above you, with everyone shouting – the old order yielding place to the new, a new king in the old king's armour. It was an ending and such a promising beginning. Everything was possible. You are everything good about Uther, and not tainted by the same prejudices and hatred. I know you don't trust them, I know you think they are on Mordred's side, but you have to trust them. You have to trust _me_. By standing with the druids, you're not being disloyal your father. You're showing the world that the Pendragons have the wisdom to admit faults, and learn from them. That's as honourable and valuable as a king who can show fear because it shows he understands what's going on."

He knew then he had won.

"_LEON!" _shouted Arthur. "Get Morris to get the horses!" He turned back to Merlin. "You and Gwen," he said, ignoring the telltale thickness to his voice, "you and Gwen are emotional nitwits. How did neither of you wonder why my father was carrying Excalibur?" He pulled on his clothes, as Merlin protested, "we had _other things to worry about_, like you, you idiot!"

"Like old times, then," said Leon, to Merlin, as they came out of the tent into the darkness, darkness which was hardly noticeable with the swirling pale mist. "Sire," he went on, "Merlin brought this new horse for you."

Arthur looked at the Llamrei, who looked back. "Is it a druid horse?" he asked.

Llamrei headbutted him.

"Yes," admitted Merlin. "But you need him for tomorrow."

Arthur peered closely at Llamrei. "There's something about him..." he mused, allowing Morris to heave him up.

"Where're we going?" asked Leon, trying to arrange his tunic in such a way under his chainmail to stop the mist sneaking in. It was even colder now night had really fallen.

"Druids!" announced Arthur, mostly to Llamrei, who immediately went into action.

"Druids?!" exclaimed Leon, quickly following, hastily unsheathing his sword.

"Druids," confirmed Merlin, relaxing for the first time that night. Yes, druids. And Lancelot and Gwen, of course. He tensed again, ever so slightly.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Strife of Albion**

**Chapter Three**

"I really don't think," said Blaise, "that you should be doing this."

"Nonsense," grunted Gwen, putting her shoulder to the horse's flank and shoving with all her might. Above the noise of the hammer and nail, she said, "I'm a blacksmith's daughter. I mean, technically this is farriery, but he could do both, and taught me, I'm not as good as a real one, but I can do the job....Look," she leaned backwards and stared eye-to-eye with the horse. "This is for your own good. You need shoes – the conditions tomorrow will be extremely difficult on your hooves. Please move over. Thank you," she concluded, getting back to work. She rubbed her head. The clearing was dancing with magic-controlled bonfires and light, banishing the mist and cold, but making it rather warm for physical exertion.

"Well, yes," conceded Blaise, "but you're also Queen..." he trailed off.

"Not. Anymore," said Gwen, standing up, flushed from the work. "Thank you, all done, " she added to the horse, who quickly moved away with an offended air. Ganieda gave him a consolation apple.

"Do you think he'll come?" asked Lancelot. He was sitting next to Blaise on a log, but looking in a completely different direction, towards the direction of the clearing where Merlin had gone to meet Leon, hours before.

"Yes," said Gwen without hesitation, turning to the next horse.

"He and Merlin _were _close."

"Yes."

"But will he trust him again?"

Gwen rested his head against the horse's flank, hiding her face from Lancelot. "Yes," she said.

"Do you really believe that?"

"_Yes_." Gwen surfaced. "Blaise, do you have anything for Lancelot to be doing?"

Blaise took the hint and took Lancelot off to help out the other druids. In truth, there wasn't a lot for Lancelot to be doing. In theory, he was a bodyguard for the druids; in fact, the druids had no real use for a warrior, however brave and talented, but were too polite to say so.

Arthur _would_ trust Merlin again. She didn't have any doubt on that score, and never had. When she had found Merlin again – or rather, _he_ had found _her_, trying to sneak into the king's battle camp at Tribruit, desperate to help, as an anonymous maid or cook or anything in fact, far from the king's attention but still helping him and the dream of Albion – she had had absolute faith in the plan he outlined to her.

It had taken every ounce of that faith to persuade Lancelot, who they came across shortly afterwards, from launching a suicidal attempt to saunter straight into the king's army and offer his services, while asking for forgiveness. He didn't believe Arthur would accept help from druids. He didn't believe Arthur would accept his help, either, but would rather die attempting to serve than live without having tried (to which noble sentiments, Merlin had thrown up his hands and shouted "_bloody knights!"_)

Yes, Arthur would trust Merlin. They had always been weirdly bound together, more closely than she and Arthur, perhaps. Whether Arthur would trust _her_ again, she didn't know. She would have said 'no' if Lancelot had asked, but she didn't believe that, maybe because she couldn't bear to actually believe that. There were many terrible things about their relationship, but the worst was that she hadn't really believed Arthur loved her – truly loved her – until she had driven him almost mad. It was only as the enormity of her betrayal sank in that she saw in his face the love she had craved all through her marriage but never seen, had come to not really believed him capable of. Arthur loved Camelot, he loved his people, he loved his kingdom; she didn't think he could love, _really love_, her as a single person, until that moment, the moment she had lost it. The loss of it was much worse than the belief it had never existed.

Merlin, furious with her when he had first found out, had screamed at her, and she had screamed back. He had known Arthur loved her. He couldn't understand her, why she had betrayed Arthur with Lancelot, who she didn't love. And she didn't. There had been an attraction, and maybe in another life, they would have been a perfect union. But whatever his chivalrous dreams, Lancelot did not want a wife, he wanted a fair maiden, he loved his knight errant-ing too much to actually settle down as a husband. But Lancelot had been a comfort, whereas Arthur had made her increasingly uncomfortable, with her sudden elevation from maid to Queen, and all the endless gossip and criticism and assumptions it exposed her to; and with her suspicion that even if he thought he loved her, he didn't. She had been wrong on so many levels, but that was the worst one.

The truth was, she thought, hammering the nails into the shoes, the simple truth was: her and Arthur were always a mistake. Had he let her stay in Camelot after her had discovered the truth, she thought they may have been able to start again and have a successful marriage based on a deeper understanding than before, but it wasn't to be. She had been so amazed that he was showing her attention that she had never paused to seriously examine the realities of the situation, until it was too late. If she had thought, _actually thought_, about the practicalities, of being raised from maid to Queen, if she had _thought_ of the reality of constantly questioning the love he had for her compared to his love for the kingdom, would she have gone through with it? She would never know the answer to that question. She had been bowled over. She had thought her simple love for being with him was enough, and it hadn't been. Of course, Arthur hadn't been a saint. He had never been around. Even when he _was _around, she was made to feel selfish if she didn't spend every two seconds worried about the people of Gwynedd's grain reserves. They were just the silly fractures of any relationship. But the stupid fears, frailties and worries of their little love affair had been blown up onto an international scale.

She didn't think Arthur would trust her again, she didn't even trust herself anymore. She had always thought she was a reasonably good person, and now most of Albion loathed her.

Ganieda suddenly gripped her shoulder. "_Gwen_." Gwen didn't look around. She could hear the horses entering the camp, and carefully finished the hammering. She turned as subtly as she could until she could see them coming in. Arthur, first, on Llamrei, holding Excalibur. The sight of him made her breath catch. It was true he had changed a lot since as a dashing albeit arrogant prince he had completely captivated her heart. He didn't look well, too thin definitely, and an uncharacteristic hunted look about his eyes, but then, he was riding into a clearing full of old enemies with a traitor at his back, so perhaps that was understandable. Although he was bolt upright in his saddle, with just enough indifference to suggest arrogance about his bearing, she knew he was nervous. Behind him was Sir Leon, who made no bones about looking nervous. He was the kindest and most generous of the knights after her marriage, where others had been coolly respectful, he had been truly courteous. His cold, hateful, disgusted face as he rode her to the borders of Camelot for her exile had been an external mask of the self-hatred she was feeling. Behind them, came Merlin, looking, if truth be told, rather smug. His plan was coming together, and Gwen had to applaud it. She just hoped her and Lancelot wouldn't be the sticking point.

Arthur dismounted Llamrei and Merlin introduced he and Leon to Blaise. The four went into conference, moving out of sight into a tent and disappearing. Gwen carried on shoeing, but her hands were trembling. After an hour or more, they emerged, all looking tired but – she hoped – reasonably friendly. Arthur was still casting an eye around the camp, under the pretence of being supercilious, but really double checking for enemies. He was still on edge. Then he found one. He saw Lancelot across the camp, and went absolutely still, his jaw clenched. She saw Merlin take his arm, nod at Blaise, and guide Arthur towards her, while whispering rapidly in his ear. Ganieda suddenly discovered she was needed elsewhere and vanished. Merlin was practically dragging an unresisting Arthur, who seemed to be bordering on the catatonic.

"Now Arthur," said Merlin, sitting him forcefully on the log where Lancelot had been before. They were mostly shielded from the camp by a curious horse who only had three shoes. "Now, Arthur, listen to me. They both wanted to help. I know on a personal basis this is tricky, I do know," his fingers gripped Arthur's shoulder slightly tighter, "but they believe in Albion. They have the faith in you and they wanted to help. How can we turn that down? Look, Gwen's shoeing horses – thousands of things druids can do with magic, shoeing horses isn't one of them – and Lancelot's..." he considered. "To be honest, Lancelot would be much more helpful to you than us, but I'm sure we all understand if you don't want that."

Arthur didn't look at her, but stared ahead at the horse's neck, but he was talking to her. "I won't," he begun, but his voice seemed to have disappeared, so he stopped, concentrated, swallowed and tried again, louder this time, though slightly unsteady. "I won't let you...or me...come between this treaty. This is bigger than us." He stood up, looking at and addressing Merlin. "We'll take him. If you say he can be trusted, I trust you." He stopped, blinking. "I don't really know why. But I do. Anyway. I don't want to talk to _him_ yet, though. He can serve under Sir Leon." His hand was resting on Excalibur defensively, body trembling with nervous energy. Gwen couldn't stand it. She understood it, but she couldn't stand watching him suffer.

"Arthur," she said, quietly, still sitting, addressing his standing back. "Arthur, I want you to know that I know I made a terrible mistake. "

Arthur looked briefly over his shoulder, casting the quickest but most important glance over her face. "That shouldn't matter," he said. "But...it does." He moved a few steps before looking over his shoulder and saying, without bitterness or malice: "And didn't we all?" And he walked away from her, back to Llamrei.

*****

It was the middle of the night, and most of the camp seemed to think they were dreaming. Leon himself felt like he was dreaming, while riding into camp with, stabling the horse of, and introducing to his men their new comrade, Lancelot, traitor to the King himself. He felt faintly humiliated by association.

Not quite as humiliated as Lancelot, though. He hadn't wanted anything for years but to fight the Saxons with King Arthur, and now he wished he had stayed mooching about in Cornwall. Everyone looked at him with unveiled hate. When the message came summoning knights to meet Arthur, everyone stared at him.

"Am I a knight?" he asked Leon.

"How should I know?" snapped Leon, tiredly. He hadn't _expected_ sleep, but he hadn't expected a night of continual drama either. "Come with me anyway. You know the druids, and I imagine everyone's going to have a lot of questions about them. But if he tells me he doesn't want you there, I'm going to throw you out myself, clear?"

"Crystal." They walked through the camp in grim silence, while the men goggled at Lancelot. "We used to be good friends," he said. He and Leon had shared many good times, especially a memorable trip to Astolat. Leon had been, in many ways, the fine knight everyone thought Lancelot was, which even _Lancelot _had convinced himself he was, and what he failed so spectacularly to be. Perhaps the lack of publicity was the secret to Leon's success.

"Yes," said Leon, shortly. He wouldn't be reminded. His usual good nature had vanished. He didn't hate many people in the whole world, but he _really_ hated Lancelot, betrayer of him, Leon, as much as Arthur; betrayer of the fine aims of the Round Table. Rebuilding the brotherly trust between Arthur and his knights had been hard, forged through eleven difficult battles with the Saxons, and even then it didn't take a genius to see that Arthur's generous heart was significantly less generous than before.

"I'm sorry," murmured Lancelot, not sure why he felt the need to explain anything to Leon. "I don't know what happened. I thought I loved her. I loved the idea of her. I'm only human, Leon." I'm just a man, he wanted to say. I'm no better or worse than you. I couldn't be the perfect knight. I get angry, and hurt, and I do stupid things and make mistakes and think I'm right when I'm not, and everything else with it. I believe things which are not true. I'm no bigger than myself.

"What about the king? No, I don't want to talk about it. Even talking about it with you is treason, in my opinion." He was dying for Lancelot to answer, though.

Lancelot didn't meet his eye, or any of the other eyes staring at him. "I thought she didn't love him. She thought that too. I didn't know. I thought he had married her and trapped her. I was angry with him. I thought it was my love story, and it wasn't. I was deceived." He had _let_ himself been deceived. He had let himself believe that boy was a guardian angel, against logic, against suspicion. It had seemed right. Lancelot had achieved everything he had dreamed of: he was a knight of Camelot, he had quests, he fought against encroaching chaos to general national applause, he had a castle, and men. The only thing missing was his fair damsel. He had believed his own publicity, he had believed that he was a great man who deserved an epic, Helen of Troy love story. When he had first seen Mordred in the flesh, sometime after he had left Arthur's side, the gravity of mistake had made him ill.

"Whatever," said Leon, who hadn't fallen in love properly yet and didn't know what Lancelot was talking about.

The other knights gaped as they entered the meeting to find the places that had long been empty around the table – Merlin and Lancelot – filled by the men themselves, as well as an extra exoticism in the form of a druid behind the king. Was it possible Arthur had gone mad?

"Gentlemen," said Arthur, choosing to completely ignore the several very obvious elephants in the room. "Gentlemen, tomorrow we fight. And I'm delighted to say we have a plan. It involves druids," he added, looking around the room. "Blaise here can talk about that. But I suppose the first thing to say is that Merlin and Lancelot and Queen Guinevere are no longer under an order of exile." He exhaled. "Which is...quite obvious, really. Okay. Let's getting cracking."

*****

King Arthur's army lined up on the shallow slope of Mount Badon. As Tristan had predicted, the mist hadn't remotely lifted. But the lines buzzed with gossip. The Queen was here, and so were Lancelot, and Merlin, and druids. The mood had perceptibly lifted. Even Kay, Tristan and Leon caught it from their men, infectious exhilaration, adrenaline. The army was tired and battered after eleven battles, but ready for the twelfth, energised and surer than ever that they had the right man.

Arthur moved through his knights, stopping and speaking to each, bashing them lightly on the arm, taking them by the shoulder, lightly clashing swords with him. He came to Lancelot, who looked straight ahead. "Sir Lancelot," said Arthur. Lancelot stared at him in astonishment. "You fight with us today, which means you are in our brotherhood," Arthur continued, levelly. "That doesn't mean things are forgiven and forgotten, by the way. They won't ever be forgotten, and time will tell on forgiveness. But no man is perfect, even the ones people want to be perfect, as I well know, believe me. You stand with us, and therefore it is my honour to serve this cause with you. It is a greater thing than either of us."

And as he moved off, Lancelot, dazed, could only say "thank you", which didn't seem to cover it. But Arthur wasn't with his knights anymore, he had moved to the front of the lines, to where the men stood facing fate, and where the general feeling seemed to be that fate was on the back foot.

"Gentlemen!" Arthur boomed, not caring that he was now addressing a group of ploughboys, carters and innkeepers. They were gentlemen to him in that morning mist. He dug his spurs in Llamrei, who with a magnificent toss of his head galloped beautifully down the lines. They wheeled together, looking over the host. Llamrei was every inch a mount worthy of a monarch. He pawed the ground for further effect, thoroughly enjoying himself. What little sunlight there was sparkled off the dragon on Arthur's shield. He waved Excalibur above his head, the sword glowing with its own internal sun. "Gentlemen! We stand here today side by side with our friends, the druids. The very people Morgana and Mordred say they represent _loathe_ them! They are renegades, and represent no one but themselves! They stand with the Saxons, who have paid King Melaynos to betray his own people for gold! Victory and freedom will be ours today, gentlemen, and it will be a glorious dawn. We will stand together, from Camelot, to Powys, to Northumbria and Mercia to Emione and Astolat and right here in Lyonesse, we will stand together and there will be peace and prosperity. But we need you. Every one of you. Hold your nerve. Don't do it for me, do it for yourselves, and your families, and for your homes, and for everything you have sacrificed these long campaigns!" Llamrei reared. "_For you!" _He shouted, and even across the plain the Saxons heard the hammering on shields and roar of "King Arthur!"

King Arthur galloped back to Merlin's side, who was looking greatly amused as he asked "Nervous?"

"I don't get nervous."

"Oh yes, that's right."

"Merlin," said Arthur, adjusting his helmet, and setting his jaw to 'battle' mode. "You are...you are quite sure that today isn't the day to cast away Excalibur, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes. Quite sure."

"Okay." Arthur sat up in his stirrups, Excalibur aloft, for all the host behind him to see. "Let's get going, then, shall we?"


	4. Epilogue

**The Strife of Albion **

A/N: The four lines in italics at the very end are from S1 E1 "The Dragon's Call" by Julian Jones and are not mine.

**Epilogue **

**FIFTEEN YEARS LATER **

It was after a very different battle. The field of Camlann was burned and scarred with the dead – not Saxons, but Mordred's men, and in a tattered tent on the edge, there was Arthur: head on Merlin's lap, Merlin's arms around his neck, pressing on the gaping wound in the king's chest, dying.

"I...think Cador will do well. Don't you?" Arthur was saying.

"Yes," said Merlin, readjusting his grip on the king's tunic, trying to hold in the blood and the tears. "Yes, I think he'll do very well." He had known since the lakeside, so many years ago now, that Blaise meant one day he would be holding Arthur as he died. He had even known, somehow, that morning. But he was unprepared. There was no preparation available. He wasn't ready. He never would have been.

"He's...so young. He's only a couple of years older than I was when we first met."

"And I'll be here to stop him stepping out of line. It's what I do – bring uppity princes and kings down a peg or two."

But Arthur couldn't be distracted. "I think he'll be all right. He was the best choice. We need...Albion needs...young kings. Remember to tell him that he mustn't carry over prejudices...the grudges that can be dropped must be...I think I told him that already..."

"You did," said Merlin, pulling the king's cold hands across his chest, and rubbing it with his own.

"I think we – our generation – I think we've blown ourselves out. It all ends here. Mordred's definitely dead?"

"Arthur, you killed him yourself." He put pressure on the wound again. There seemed to be more blood on Arthur's tunic than one man could hold.

"And he killed me. Wish we'd found that scabbard now, much as I didn't like it." There was a pause. Arthur's breath was failing him, but he attempted to rally. "I think it's time to cast away Excalibur, Merlin."

Merlin rested his chin on Arthur's head, and fought the nausea. The blonde hair was fading to grey in places, and thinning slightly. But Arthur wasn't old, and never would be. He couldn't speak for a moment. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it," he said, finally, clinging tighter to the tunic.

"Merlin," every word required a deep breath. He was fumbling with his fingers, and produced from his pocket a white piece of cloth. "Give this to her, won't you? Tell her...it did bring me luck." He pressed it into Merlin's hands. Even if anyone had been told that the piece of cloth had been given to an unknown knight by a servant girl in a ramshackle house in the lower town of Camelot twenty-odd years before, to be worn in a long-forgotten jousting tournament, they wouldn't have cared. There were only two people in the world who it meant anything to. It had been through many tournaments, skirmishes, campaigns and battles since, it was covered in grime and now sticky, fresh blood, but Gwen would recognise it in seconds.

"It didn't bring you much luck that day," said Merlin, as lightly as he could, stuffing it in his pocket before resuming the pressure on the wound. "You were almost stabbed to death with a lance."

"It's _never_ really brought me much luck," breathed Arthur, with effort. "But tell her it anyway. She's happy, isn't she?"

"In Broceliande? Very, you know she is. Didn't she look it last time she was in Camelot? I think she just loves organising the druids." She _was_ happy, thought Merlin, that wasn't a lie. He thought about breaking the news to her, and shut his eyes briefly.

"I bet," Arthur couldn't laugh anymore. "I'm glad we're friends again." There was a pause. "I wish..." he said, and for the first and only time since he had been wounded, Arthur became maudlin. "I wish I could have seen Morgana again, Merlin."

Words vanished from Merlin's mouth. He adjusted his position slightly. "You saved her, Arthur. You...you can know that."

There was a long pause as Arthur struggled for air. Eventually, when he spoke, Merlin knew he was fading fast. He braced himself, trying to impart a feeling of strength from his body to Arthur's, so Arthur could go like a warrior. There was no such thing as warrior's death. There was only this.

"We did do it all, didn't we, though?" Arthur was barely audible now, even though Merlin's ear was an inch above Arthur's mouth. "I mean, we did do everything we were meant to, didn't we?"

The laugh came out as a choke. "Yeah, we covered it, I think." He was still resting his chin on Arthur's head, looking in front of them both. The tent was beginning to swim in front of his eyes and his breathing was almost as shallow as the dying king's. He pulled his friend in closer and said, "Can you imagine what Uther would think?"

"About me literally being hugged to death by a sorcerer?" asked Arthur, unable to laugh, only gasp slightly.

"Indeed. But I was thinking more about the fact you are loved, respected, obeyed and lauded from Lothian to Brittany and Cornwall to Northumbria, your lands are all well-run, just and prosperous, your knights worship you and the ploughboys in the fields stop to wave at you. You have achieved greatness, Arthur."

"I brought civil war."

"No. Mordred did that. You held him off. He was stuck up in the north with that band of renegades for years while you did so much...so much good." It was no use. Arthur couldn't see his face, but the tears were audible in the last sentence.

"Merlin," Arthur's body tensed and relaxed, he was slipping, Merlin gripped, but he couldn't save him this time. "Merlin, remember, no man is worth your tears."

"Arthur Pendragon, you've said many, many royally prattish things in your time, but that one is and always has been the most ridiculous."

"I know," sighed Arthur. "Sounds good, though, doesn't it?"

"Only to you knights. To everyone else it sounds idiotic."

Arthur was shaking now, involuntarily. He gritted his teeth. As once Arthur had done when he believed he was seeing Merlin off to eternity, Merlin lightly kissed his head. "Thank you, Arthur," he said, quietly.

The shuddering stopped. "It's been an honour." The words formed on his lips, but sound had gone.

"It's been mine." Said Merlin. And then he felt him go.

He sat there for some time, still holding the dead king. He still did not release the overwhelming grief; he still had a job to do. He was just trying to keep a lid on it. He could feel Arthur going cold. These were the last few minutes together. Tears screwed out of the edges of his eyes. He had to get a grip.

He became aware of Cador, entering the tent, crawling next to him, and staring in blank horror at Arthur's pale face. The young man, the new king, looked from Arthur to Merlin and back again, his eyes widening to saucers. Then he leaned back, and voice shaking with just the edge of panic, said to Merlin. "I'm not ready. Merlin, I'm not ready."

It was almost too much to bear. He couldn't bear it. He took a deep breath, squeezed one last time and let go of Arthur, the only constant in his life for a quarter of a century. He had once said to Gaius, long ago, that everything he did was for Arthur. It was true even now, of course. He would protect and help Cador and the other knights, to help and protect Albion, to help and protect Arthur's achievement. Arthur was still a constant. But it would be so lonely. He climbed to his feet, and pulled Cador up with him. "You're never ready. _He _wasn't ready. He never _got_ ready. He just did it anyway. Come on."

*****

They went down to the edge of the lake. The barge was already there, as the young knights arranged their king on it. They didn't blink twice at the lady on board. They didn't know her.

"You look well, Morgana," said Merlin.

It was true – Morgana's self-imposed exile to the Isle of the Blessed had agreed with her. She looked more peaceful than he had ever seen her, and more beautiful. She did, though, have the edge of unreality that the Lady of the Lake had – the price of life with the Old Religion was divorce from human emotions in their good and bad extremes. The peace she had gained had taken from her the capacity for love. She accepted the body of a man she once loved like a brother without a ripple across her serene face.

Merlin would never have believed it possible, when she had appeared at Arthur's court years before, not long after Arthur's great victory at Mount Badon, after she had realised the extent and awfulness of the consequences of Mordred's insanity. Still called the Lady Morgana by the confused guards, the name had been a terrible pathos, a mockery, as she had knelt by the throne, in a ragged dress, clinging to Arthur's cloak and begging for forgiveness, on the edge of losing herself. She told them it was she who had murdered Lancelot, not an honourable death, but one when he was alone, unarmed and defenceless, and his body left in the courtyard of Joyous Gard. She had killed Lancelot, she said, to try and reconcile with Arthur, to avenge for Arthur the great wrong Lancelot had done. But it hadn't worked, she had known, probably before but certainly after she had done it that the murder would not please Arthur, she had known his honour would abhor it, and the guilt of that murder had just compounded the guilt of all the other many wrongs, had thrown into relief just how far she had strayed from the code of honour she had grown up in. Her petty vengeance had become a monster in Mordred's hands, beyond her control and her will. She had never had any instruction or guidance with her craft, but Morgause and Mordred's false kindnesses.

She was being haunted by dreams, terrible dreams, of the people she had killed, the wrong she had done. Her remorse had almost driven her mad. She had wandered in the forest of Calidon, where trees walked and a crazed hermit had told her of his own prophetic dreams, of the destruction of Strathclyde which had come true, and the voices from the heavens which told him of the terrible things he had done in battle, of how he had dreamt of his king's death and destruction and it had come true. He had dreamt of Arthur's greatness; Arthur would forgive her, the crazy hermit had told her, he would forgive her if she would seek him out, and then she could redeem herself, but not in the wild forest. All of this had tumbled out in total incoherence, Arthur bending over her to try and understand her words as she poured this out into the material of his cloak.

In desperation, Arthur had summoned the Lady of the Lake for advice, who had taken her to the Isle of the Blessed, where she could learn to use her powers to bring ease to her guilt and misery, to help bring balance and order back to the Old Religion. And now here she was, far from the figure barely able to stand through grief and distress which had been kissed by Arthur in the great hall of Camelot in forgiveness for the wrongs she had done him ("I cannot forgive for all the others"), but back to the Lady Morgana who Merlin had once known and admired – standing tall, still beautiful despite the years, with just the edge of experience and troubles around her eyes. Calling her the Lady Morgana would no longer be a mockery. In fact, he half wondered if he should.

She rested a hand on the red dragon on Arthur's chest, which was almost invisible in the drying blood, and said, "Merlin, you look terrible."

"I _feel_ terrible."

"You aren't coming?"

"I have things to do here still. But I will come. One day."

"It might help to see his resting place, Merlin."

"It won't help." The finality of this, the effective surrender of Arthur's body was breaking his defences. The grief, have temporarily retreated, was threatening to engulf him again. He couldn't keep talking like this. "It really _won't_ help. I'll be along. But I have things to do first."

Morgana glanced at the scared young Cador and nodded. "I understand."

The barge pulled away across the lake, sunlight glancing off the water's surface. Merlin left Cador to get the horses and climbed up to the highest cliff overlooking the lake. He took Excalibur with him. It was a weight in his hands. He watched the barge until it merged with the sun and vanished into the lake. Arthur was gone. Except, standing here holding Excalibur, which had become such a part of him, it was as though he hadn't gone at all.

Take me up. Merlin could still remember, sneaking over to Gwen's house to get the sword, running down those treacherous steps (_how_ had he never broken his neck?) to persuade that incorrigible dragon to breathe on it, and then Uther coolly and calmly trampling over everything, despite for once trying to do the right thing, Arthur swinging it for the first time at Broceliande to free him from his torment, and his secret.

Cast me away. He couldn't think of it anymore without going mad. He took one last, swift glance, heaved his arm back and threw the glorious, beautiful sword which meant all the world to him into the lake. It vanished with a splash. Merlin stood, in shock at his own actions. Even though he had always known he would have to do it, he was vaguely impressed at his own courage. He breathed out, and let the tears come. A few gulps of air were needed, and then they rolled silently and steadily, and would, he knew, for a long time. But it was time to go. One last thing. "Thank you!" He shouted, to the clear morning air, cold on his wet cheeks. "Thank you, Freya! For everything!"

The waters parted, briefly, and an arm appeared, holding Excalibur aloft one final time in the gleaming sun, in acknowledgement. Then both vanished beneath the water without a ripple.

He turned and climbed back to where Cador was waiting, with Llamrei. "Where's Excalibur?" he asked.

"I threw it in the lake," said Merlin, numbly mounting on Llamrei, who fully understood the events of the last few hours, and who seemed several hands shorter, the weight of the loss of his master too much even for his own great strength.

"_What_? Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something to do with destiny, I expect, it usually is." He sighed, very, very tired. "Listen to me, sire. I will be back, very soon. But I need rest. I'm so tired. I'm going to go and see some old friends."

Cador now looked sick. "I can't do this alone."

"You aren't alone. Sir Leon is standing right over there waiting for you. And I will be back so soon. But you won't really be a king for a while, you have to clean up these warrior things first, and I'm no use to you for that. I'm going to go and rest, and I will be back by your side before you know it."

"Where will you go?"

"The forest of Broceliande. It's where the Queen lives, with some old druid friends of mine. They will want to see me, after this, and I want to see them." He leaned down from Llamrei, and squeezed his shoulder. "Have faith, Cador. You are already streets ahead of where the previous candidate was at your age, believe you me."

Llamrei padded through the landscape, away from the destruction of the battlefield and through rolling countryside which had yet to learn its king was dead. The people would be devastated, but not afraid. They were happy and felt safe, and would trust the heir Arthur had picked. We've blown ourselves out, Arthur had said. The morning did seem fresher, lighter, in contrast to the weight of Merlin's mood. The Pendragon burdens had finally been shed from the world. And at what cost, though! Morgana and Freya forever away from the world, the terrible heartache of Gwen, Lancelot and Arthur, Gwen left alone, Arthur, Lancelot and Mordred dead, and Merlin witnessing it all, seeming forever to be pushing against an advancing wall which could never be pushed back.

It seemed all his life he was trying to protect Arthur, so that he could die today; as though he, Merlin, had offered up this morning's final sacrifice as the summation of a lifetime's work. There was no victory or glory in it. In his grief, he was almost angry with something, anyone, for the terrible personal losses their generation had been forced to give for the greater dream of Albion. The loss of Arthur was the end of an era for the kingdom, which could now look to King Cador with the same anticipation Merlin had felt years ago in the courtyard of Camelot looking up at the new King Arthur. But for Merlin, looking at the peaceful fields through streaming eyes, it seemed as though he could not breathe in the new air.

He needed to calm down and stop being maudlin. It was a long ride to Broceliande. He did not have to worry for now about court politics or international diplomacy or cosmic harmony – he had nothing to think of for the time being but his friend.

"_So I don't know you."_

"_No."  
"But you called me 'friend'"_

"_That was my mistake."_

"_Yes, I think so."_

And now there was laughter with the tears.


	5. Postscript

**Postscript: The Changing of the Guard **

I didn't mean to write this, especially so long after the story. But Jane Mays asked for it – about a hundred years ago, with several gentle nudges since. I really struggled with it, still not sure it's any good, but felt it was an interesting experiment writing something because someone else had come up with the idea rather than always writing whatever I felt like. So I enjoyed the challenge even if I didn't execute it very well. Jane – I hope you don't completely hate it. Sorry if you do.

xxxxxxx

They said Arthur would come again. That he was living at the end of the sea, with his sister, and in their hour of need, he would come again.

But he had not come. There had been many hours of need in these long years, and still King Arthur did not come. He was no longer looked for. Poets still talked of him, and children squabbled over who got to play him in their games, but for most people King Arthur became no more important to their lives that any other poet's fantasy or child's game. No one even really remembered the man, anymore. His queen, the notorious Guinevere, had died many years ago, in the forests Broceliande on the distant borders of Albion. Arthur's heir, Cador, had died fighting against the Saxons generations ago. And now King Ceredig, who didn't remember Cador much less Arthur, held court in Camelot's decaying walls.

The Kings stayed in the old fortress because of its illustrious past, but the city of Camelot had long outgrown the old city walls, and the kingdom of Albion had long outgrown the old fortress of Camelot. The city of Camelot didn't need the city walls anymore, and the kingdom of Albion didn't need the citadel of Camelot anymore. The real seat of power now was down in Logres at the centre of the sprawling kingdom – a brand new city, large enough for all the members of the court, with a room especially for the Round Table. Camelot looked what it was – an old, provincial castle that once, in the bad old times, had belonged to an old, provincial king. But it was still the official seat of the Kings of Albion. Because of Arthur. 'In case he ever comes back,' older courtiers would joke, drily. 'So he'll know where to find us.'

So, because of Arthur and in case he ever came for them again, King Ceredig held court in Camelot, at least occasionally. And also in Camelot, Merlin slept, soundly. Merlin rarely went to Logres. Ceredig came to him, instead. Ceredig would expect most people to go to _him, _but was willing to make an exception for the ancient sorcerer – he was, after all, usually worth the trip.

No one knew how old the old magician was. They said he had known King Arthur as a young man, which made him older than the hills, as old as the stars. He had been there at Arthur's last battle – he may as well have been there at the start of the world. He had defended Albion against more attackers than anyone alive, he alone was unfazed by waves of evil – he had seen it, and defeated it, all before. He remembered an ancient history that seemed today like stories of a world gone mad: Queen Guinevere as a servant, Sir Lancelot as a mercenary, magic banned throughout the realm of Camelot, a time before Albion. He rarely told the stories, but everyone knew them anyway, because if you heard them once, you told everyone you knew.

He was the greatest counsellor in Albion – kind, certainly, and famously wise.

And in his wisdom, he had never looked for Arthur to come again.

But Arthur came, anyway. For him.

XXXXX

Time did not signify in Avalon, where the apples were always ripe, the wildflowers always in bloom, the breeze warm and the sun shining. Arthur turned around at the touch on his shoulders. It was Morgana. "You woke me," he said, because he knew she had, even though he didn't remember it. He looked at the beauty, and felt the warmth of the air, and the scent of the flowers, and did not resent being woken.

"I did. It is time, and he hasn't come," Morgana replied. She did not sleep, and did not need to.

"I'll go for him," he said.

"I knew you would," she said.

XXXX

Merlin slept soundly, and he dreamt of Arthur. He dreamt of Arthur reasonably often, dreaming of the old days. No person alive remembered those now, so instead he dreamt about his dead friends who were there.

Then he felt a touch on his hand and opened his eyes.

"Brother," said Arthur.

Little had surprised Merlin in years. Decades. But this surprised him. He had not looked for it.

Merlin thought it was still a dream. He'd been dreaming about the day Arthur had ridden into the courtyard after Uther's death. There was a statue there now, of Arthur, except it didn't look anything like Arthur. It could have been practically anyone _apart_ from Arthur. But of course only he knew what Arthur had really looked like.

And that's what convinced him he wasn't dreaming. Because looking at Arthur in front of him, although he was similar to how Merlin's long memory had kept him, he wasn't identical. There were things he had forgotten. This wasn't a vision conjured from his subconscious.

"It's time?"

"It's over time," Arthur told him.

"But there's still so much left to be done."

Arthur looked around him, at the quiet castle where people slept soundly because they were in a wide, unified kingdom and they could sleep because there were others awake.

"No," he said, "there isn't."

Merlin sat in the darkness of what was once, aeons ago now, Gaius' room, and wanted to argue. There were still squabbles, still border attacks. Although people were sleeping now. It was silent. There were no more running up and down corridors in the dark, no whispers in dungeons of loyalty and treachery, and there were not three young people huddled in dark rooms trying to work out how to save a kingdom. And there never would be, in Camelot, ever again.

Merlin looked at Arthur – the real Arthur, not the warrior king or the supernatural saviour of mankind, but his friend – and knew he was right.

His statue honestly didn't look anything like him. But then, no one had bothered to ask Merlin what Arthur had looked like. Because what Arthur had _really _looked like was totally irrelevant to the exercise. Arthur wasn't a person anymore, he was an idea.

And that was why there wasn't anything left to do. The idea of Arthur, the idea of Albion, the idea that by working together everyone got a chance to get some sleep, that had become a reality. Which was all the Dragon had predicted, all that Blaise had promised and all that Arthur had died for.

"We've done everything we were meant to," said Merlin, out loud, because it was such an extraordinary idea. The smile that crept over his old face was completely unconscious and unstoppable.

"We've done more," said Arthur. "And now it's time. Come with me on one more journey?"

Merlin, still beaming, rose and went with Arthur.


End file.
